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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774840">Dead On Arrival</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone'>zach_stone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Friends to Lovers, Horror Comedy, I PROMISE THIS IS A FUNNY FIC, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Santa Clarita Diet Fusion, Zombies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:00:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,258</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie’s always claimed that he doesn’t believe in things like cosmic irony, but when he wakes up dead in a room at the Best Western in Santa Clarita the morning after he made the first reckless choice of his adult life, he starts to rethink that particular stance. </p><p>--</p><p>Or: For reasons unknown, Eddie Kaspbrak finds himself undead and hungry. He's gonna try to make it work. A Santa Clarita Diet AU. (Do not need to have seen the show to understand the fic!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>140</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Just A Taste</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeingrightly/gifts">seeingrightly</a>.</li>



    </ul><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ALRIGHTY FRIENDS, strap in for this one, i've been brainstorming it for Months and im very excited to unleash it at last. pls do not be intimidated by the tags, i promise this will be mostly lighthearted and silly and full of fun hijinks!! </p><p>while this fic uses the basic zombie lore from santa clarita diet, the plot is very different so you don't need to have seen the show to know what's up -- and if you have seen the show, you'll still be surprised, i hope! chapter count is an estimate and subject to change. u know me. </p><p>this is dedicated to lex, for introducing me to SCD and brainstorming this fic with me and beta reading it too. ur my hero. &lt;3 also a huge huge shoutout to kit, for cheering me on constantly as i worked thru this first chapter. im love u. </p><p>CHAPTER-SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS include emetophobia/non-detailed description of A Lot Of Vomit, and implied domestic abuse. you can assume the fic content warnings will apply for most chapters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie’s always claimed that he doesn’t believe in things like cosmic irony, but when he wakes up in a room at the Best Western in Santa Clarita literally flooded with his own vomit the morning after he made the first reckless choice of his adult life, he starts to rethink that particular stance. </p><p>Let’s rewind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 1991 </em>
</p><p>Eddie had never seen Richie so nervous before. They were sitting under the bleachers at school, hiding out during lunch hour. Richie went there to smoke sometimes, but mostly they just went there to avoid the seniors who liked to harass them. Richie kept pulling out blades of grass, his fingernails digging into the dirt. He clearly wanted to say something, but he was quiet. That was how Eddie could tell something was <em> really </em>wrong. He and Richie had been friends since the first grade, and he knew Richie was only quiet when he was really scared.</p><p>Unable to stand it any longer, Eddie reached over and grabbed Richie’s wrist, stilling his hand. Richie stiffened, flicking his gaze to Eddie. Two spots of color stood out on his cheeks. </p><p>“What the fuck is the matter with you right now?” Eddie asked.</p><p>“Um,” Richie said. “I — nothing, man, what’s the matter with you?” Eddie just scowled at him, and finally Richie relented. “I, uh, I wanna tell you something.”</p><p>“Oh,” Eddie said. “Okay.” He waited, but Richie just continued to sit there looking scared. “What, is it something bad? Did you kill someone?”</p><p>Richie huffed out a laugh. “You think I’m capable of murder? Should I take that as a compliment?”</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes. “You’re so annoying. Just tell me what it is. You can tell me anything, Rich.”</p><p>Richie smiled slightly. “Yeah.” He took a deep breath, and then, addressing his knees instead of Eddie, he whispered, “I’m gay.”</p><p>Eddie felt everything go very still inside of him. It’s not like he hadn’t heard the rumors — Richie’s name graffitied in the girl’s bathroom on the first floor of the school, scrawled alongside slurs. And it’s not like Eddie hadn’t <em> wondered, </em> if only because sometimes Richie looked at boys the way <em> Eddie </em>looked at boys, when he thought no one else was paying attention. But to hear Richie say it… Eddie let out all of his breath slowly.</p><p>“Oh,” he said. “Well, hey. That’s… that’s okay, Richie. It’s fine, you know? That’s not bad.” </p><p>Richie cut his gaze to Eddie, a little disbelieving. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Eddie realized he was still hanging onto Richie’s wrist, so he gave it a reassuring squeeze before letting go, folding his hands back in his lap. “You know I don’t care about any of that shit. You’re my best friend.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie said. He reached up to knuckle at one eye under his glasses, and then smiled at Eddie. “Thanks, Eds. Don’t tell anyone?”</p><p>“’Course I won’t,” Eddie said. “Pinky swear.” He held out his hand, and Richie laughed a little before locking his pinky with Eddie’s. </p><p>Their fingers still hooked together, Richie said, “Now you gotta tell me a secret. Did <em> you </em>murder someone?”</p><p>If Eddie were brave, he would have told Richie right then, <em> I’m gay too. </em> And if he were <em> really </em> brave, maybe he would’ve even told Richie <em> I think I have a crush on you. </em>But he wasn’t, so instead he just scoffed and said, “If you can’t kill someone, I definitely couldn’t. Look at me.”</p><p>Richie said, “Well if you did, I’d help you bury the body.”</p><p>Eddie snorted. “You gonna pinky swear on that?”</p><p>Richie’s finger tightened a little around his. “Pinky swear.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Present day </em>
</p><p>Eddie pounds on the door to Richie’s house. It’s a big house, too fucking big for one person if you ask Eddie, not that anyone did, but Eddie makes sure to tell Richie on a regular basis during their weekly Skype calls. He doesn’t know how Richie affords this place on a foley artist’s salary. </p><p>It’s late morning, and someone a few houses down is mowing their front lawn. In the house to the right of Richie’s, a teenage boy is blatantly watching Eddie through the upstairs window. Eddie hammers his fist on the door a few more times.</p><p>Maybe Richie’s not home, maybe he’s in LA working on a movie — but no, Eddie knows for a fact that Richie’s not on a job right now, because he’s been complaining about being bored and trying out new foley techniques directly into Eddie’s ear over the phone lately. “I’m an <em> artist, </em>Eds, I have to hone my craft,” he says every time, before snapping a piece of celery and asking Eddie if it sounds like a femur breaking.</p><p>After the third round of knocking, Eddie hears Richie lumbering toward the door, already shouting as he yanks it open. “Hold your fuckin’ horses, I’m — Eds?” Richie blinks at him, bleary with his left eye squintier than usual. He’s wearing sweatpants and a raggedy T-shirt with the Muppets on it. His hair is a snarled mess of bedhead. He looks dumbfounded.</p><p>“Hi,” Eddie says.</p><p>Richie blinks a few more times. “Eddie?” he says again. “Wh-what are you doing here?”</p><p>“Okay, so — it’s a long story. I’m gay, and that’s like, the tip of the fucking iceberg. Can I come in?” </p><p>Richie looks as though Eddie’s just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. “What?” he says, his voice going up an octave. </p><p>“Richie. Can I come in?” Eddie asks again, pointedly. He turns to glare at the teenager in the window, who shrugs and flips him the bird. Scowling, Eddie turns back to Richie, who is still gawping at him, and then just sighs and shoves his way in the house without invitation.</p><p>“Where’s… did you bring shit? Where’s your fifteen suitcases?” Richie asks from his spot in the doorway.</p><p>“Richie!” Eddie snaps, so Richie pulls the door shut and follows Eddie as he makes his way to the living room. Eddie gestures for Richie to sit down.</p><p>“Are you good, dude? You’re like —” Richie widens his eyes significantly. </p><p>“I left Myra,” Eddie says. Richie drops onto the couch like a puppet with cut strings.</p><p>“What?” he sounds less squeaky this time but just as shocked. “That’s — hey, that’s a good thing, right?”</p><p>“Obviously it’s a good thing, I know you think it’s a good thing,” Eddie says with a frown. It’s been no secret that Richie and Myra don’t get along.</p><p>Richie’s brow furrows, and he opens and closes his mouth soundlessly, before saying, “I just meant. I’m happy you got out if — if you weren’t happy.” He looks like he wants to say more, but Eddie barrels on over him, because he has a <em> lot </em>more to say. He starts pacing as he speaks.</p><p>“So I left, and I got on a plane, and I came here. Last night.” At Richie’s incredulous look, Eddie flings his hands in the air and says, “I know! Me! And I like, ate junk food for dinner, I got some fucking Italian-seafood fusion shit from some local place that did <em> not </em> look up to code and I didn’t even care, and I slept in a hotel, and when I woke up, I —” He remembers as the words are leaving his mouth about Richie’s <em> thing </em>with vomit, and winces. “I had thrown up, like, a lot. And — and look at this.” He steps closer to Richie and unwraps a bandage from around his pointer finger. He holds it up in front of Richie and squeezes at the cut he’d made on the pad of his finger back at the hotel that morning. Richie yelps, and then recoils into the couch cushions when the cut doesn’t bleed, but instead oozes some sort of viscous black substance. </p><p>“Eddie?” Richie says, his eyes wide. “What the fuck?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” Eddie says, wiping his hand on his pants. “It doesn’t even hurt!”</p><p>“Do you need me to take you to the hospital?” Richie says, dragging his gaze away from Eddie’s hand to look at his face.</p><p>Eddie shakes his head vehemently. “Fuck no. You know I hate the hospital, Rich, I’m not — no. I feel <em> fine, </em>I don’t need a doctor.”</p><p>“But —”</p><p>“I’m not even done yet, there’s more,” Eddie cuts him off. “Feel my heart.” Richie, still looking disconcerted, places a flat palm over Eddie’s chest. His touch is so light, like he’s scared to put any pressure. Eddie places his hand over the top of Richie’s and presses down, so he’ll really feel it. Richie’s face goes very pink. “What do you feel?” Eddie asks.</p><p>“Uh,” Richie says. He blinks a few times, then meets Eddie’s gaze again. “Nothing?”</p><p>“Exactly!” Eddie says. “I don’t have a fucking heartbeat, Richie! I don’t have a pulse!”</p><p>“What?” Richie says. “That’s — just because you can’t feel it through your shirt, I mean I can’t feel my own heartbeat half the time, that doesn’t mean —”</p><p>Exasperated, Eddie moves Richie’s hand up to his neck, where the pulse point in his jugular should be. He has to lean down a little to do it, bringing his face closer to Richie’s, and Richie’s blushing much harder now. The feeling of Richie’s hand at the soft skin of Eddie’s neck, his big fingers gentle just under his jaw, shoots desire like a jolt of electricity through Eddie’s core. </p><p>Richie’s voice is quieter than Eddie’s used to when he speaks. “So — so you wake up with no pulse and your first thought is to come to <em> me </em>for help? I’m not exactly a medical expert, Eds, I don’t even know how many bones are in the human body.” </p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes. “Two hundred and six,” he says immediately. “And no, actually, I came here because I want to kiss you.” Richie makes a choked noise, his face deliciously red, and Eddie smiles. “Can I do that now?”</p><p>“Yes,” Richie says, quick and breathless, so Eddie leans forward the rest of the way and catches Richie’s mouth in a kiss. </p><p>Richie kisses back hard, urgent, like he’s afraid at any moment Eddie’s going to pull back and it’ll be over too soon. His hand moves to the back of Eddie’s neck, keeping him close, and Eddie gets one knee up on the couch so he’s half-straddling Richie’s thighs. He sucks on Richie’s bottom lip and runs his tongue over Richie’s back teeth and the want spreads like something molten through his body until he can feel it in the tips of his fingers, clutching at Richie’s shoulders and the sides of his face. Eddie’s wanted to do this for so long, as long as he can remember, the constant, low thrum of wishing he could kiss Richie like this. If Richie’s reaction is anything to go by, it seems like he’s wanted this just as much, and isn’t <em> that </em>something? Eddie pushes forward, pressing Richie back against the couch, insistent.</p><p>There’s a knock on the front door, and they startle apart. Richie’s mouth is pink and spit-slick, his pupils dilated when he opens his eyes to stare dazedly at Eddie. They’re both panting slightly. </p><p>“I… I should get that,” Richie says. He runs his hand up and down the side of Eddie’s neck a couple times before sitting up, dislodging Eddie from his lap. He staggers to his feet and hurries to the front door. Eddie follows behind, annoyed at the interruption. </p><p>When Richie answers the door, there’s a pretty woman on the other side with short red hair, a jacket with a popped collar and the cuffs buttoned, and a food processor in her hands. She smiles at Richie, and then sees Eddie peering over his shoulder and smiles at him, too. </p><p>“Sorry, I didn’t know you had company,” she says. “I just wanted to return your food processor. Thanks again.” She holds it out to Richie, who takes it. He’s still moving slightly clumsily, like he left his motor skills back on the couch.</p><p>Incredulously, Eddie says, “You own a food processor?”</p><p>“It was a Christmas gift from my parents,” Richie says. “Also, fuck off, I cook! You don’t know my life!” He glances back at the woman in the doorway. “Bev, this is my best friend Eddie. We grew up together. Eds, this is Bev, she lives next door.” </p><p>“Are you the one with the nosy teenager?” Eddie asks, frowning when he remembers the kid watching him earlier. Richie barks out a surprised laugh, and Bev chuckles, shaking her head.</p><p>“No, no, my husband and I are on the other side,” she says. “We don’t have children. You probably saw Adrian. He’s a good kid.” </p><p>“Hm,” Eddie says, unconvinced. Richie looks incredibly amused. </p><p>“Well it’s nice to meet you,” Bev says. “Are you visiting from out of town?”</p><p>“Beverly!” a sharp voice calls from across the lawn before Eddie can answer. It’s instant, the way Bev’s whole demeanor shifts — her posture, her expression. Eddie recognizes the body language immediately. He has a brief flashback to being a child, the way his spine would stiffen and his expression would go wooden when his mother called his name. Tense like a coiled spring, ready for the slightest shift in his mother’s tone or body language that would indicate danger. A man strides across Richie’s front lawn to stand close to Bev on the porch, his hand settling around her waist. His fingers dig into her hip. Eddie narrows his eyes.</p><p>“Tom,” Richie says in a flat, emotionless tone. His gaze keeps flicking between the man — Tom, apparently — and Bev. Richie looks anxious.</p><p>“What are you still doing over here?” Tom asks Bev, ignoring Richie entirely. “You said you’d be quick.”</p><p>“She’s only been over here for two fucking minutes,” Eddie snaps. Everyone looks at him. Richie looks downright alarmed. </p><p>“Excuse me?” Tom says, his lip curling.</p><p>“Why don’t you mind your fucking business, man? She can talk to us if she wants to,” Eddie says. Tom is taller than him, with a mean look on his face, but Eddie doesn’t feel like backing down. He feels like he could keep right on going, really tear this guy a new one —</p><p>Bev interjects before Eddie can say anything else. “I was just saying hello to Richie’s friend, I didn’t mean to get caught up in conversation. Let’s go back home, okay? Honey?” And Eddie recognizes that, too, the de-escalation. He feels like his blood is boiling. He wants to rip Tom’s fucking head off. It’s only the look on Bev’s face that holds him back, and even then it’s a close call. Bev shoots them both a much stiffer smile than before, and then she and Tom turn to leave. Tom doesn’t so much as say goodbye. </p><p>Richie shuts the door, still holding the food processor in his hands. “Dude,” he says. “What was that?”</p><p>“What was <em> what?” </em>Eddie snaps.</p><p>“You can’t just — that didn’t help. Getting up in his face like that. C’mon, man.”</p><p>“Does he hurt her?” Eddie demands.</p><p>Richie looks at the door and then back to Eddie. “I don’t know them very well,” he admits. “Tom — the husband — he doesn’t like me. And I mean, I have my suspicions, but. I don’t know. Calling the cops wouldn’t do shit. And I don’t get much chance to talk to her alone.”</p><p>“It felt… familiar,” Eddie says, frowning at the front door.</p><p>Richie looks abruptly horrified. “You’re not saying Myra —”</p><p>“No, <em> god </em> no. I meant it reminded me of my mom,” Eddie says quickly.</p><p>“Ah.” Richie shifts the food processor so he can tuck it under one arm, scrubbing his free hand through his hair. “Eds, look, I — are you sure you’re feeling okay? You’re… you’re acting really fucking weird.”</p><p>“I’m <em> fine,” </em>Eddie insists. Richie is eyeballing him anxiously. His mouth is still pink from earlier, the skin beneath his bottom lip slightly red. All at once Eddie wants to be kissing him again, and he steps forward into Richie’s space, grabbing the front of his shirt. “Lemme show you how fine I am,” he says lowly.</p><p>Richie swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing, and puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Eddie. Seriously. I’ve never seen you like this. Like, I’ve seen manic Eddie and this is not him.”</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eddie says, nosing under Richie’s jaw. He feels Richie shiver and sigh, his head tipping back slightly. </p><p>“I’m talking about your fucking black ooze blood and no heartbeat situation, man!” Richie says. He nudges Eddie away from him enough so they can look each other in the eye. “You’re not acting right. I think you might be —”</p><p>“If you say I’m sick, Rich, I swear to fucking god —”</p><p>Richie shakes his head. “That’s not what I was gonna say. But clearly something’s going on, right? I mean, this isn’t <em> normal. </em>Do you remember my friend Mike?”</p><p>Confused, Eddie says, “College Mike?”</p><p>“College Mike,” Richie confirms. “We should call him. I think he could help. He knows about this kind of stuff.”</p><p>“What, is he a doctor?” Eddie asks, raising an eyebrow. He knows perfectly well that Mike is not a doctor.</p><p>“Well no, but — he’s into all of that, like, cryptids and supernatural shit,” Richie says. He slides away from the wall and from Eddie, heading for the kitchen to put the food processor down on the counter and pulling out his phone.</p><p>“I am not a <em> cryptid, </em>Richie!” Eddie hisses, stalking after him. </p><p>Richie ignores him and starts rapidly texting Mike. Without looking up, he asks, “Do you want breakfast? I know you said you, uh, threw up, but I have — eggs, I think. And cereal. I might have an apple?” </p><p>All of those suggestions sound about as appealing as if Richie had offered him rancid garbage. Eddie hasn’t eaten since dinner last night; by all accounts, he should be at least a <em> little </em> hungry. It’s after eleven. There’s definitely a pang of <em> something </em>in his stomach right now; Eddie feels like that will be more sated by Richie kissing him than by eating anything, but clearly that’s not on the table right now. He shakes his head. “I’m good,” he says. “I’m not hungry.” </p><p>--</p><p>Eddie has met Mike Hanlon a handful of times over the years. He’s a nice guy — friendly and handsome and a good friend to Richie, which is probably the most important thing in Eddie’s book. He is, as far as Eddie’s aware, the only other person Richie’s come out to. Richie even brought Mike as his plus-one to Eddie’s wedding, which Myra thought was “odd” and made Eddie feel an absurd surge of jealousy on top of his day-long anxiety attack. Mike works at a library in Santa Clarita now, and he lives in an apartment complex not far from Richie’s neighborhood. </p><p>All of this to say, Eddie likes Mike. He also knows that Mike is kind of a weirdo. He’s obsessed with weird supernatural shit. He’s mentioned “cryptozoology forums” more than once on the occasions that Eddie’s met him. He has shirts with Bigfoot and Mothman on them. He has an extensive collection of books about the paranormal. Eddie is not sure if he believes in things like aliens and ghosts, and he definitely doesn’t believe in Bigfoot. So he’s a little skeptical of how much Mike will be able to help with his particular problem. </p><p>But the thought of going to a hospital for this — usually something he would do because that’s what his mother or Myra would beg of him — is the last thing Eddie wants. And it’s not like it’s <em> ever </em> something he wants to do, he hates the hospital, but his fear of sickness combined with his need to placate his mother or his wife is usually enough to drive him to do it anyway. Because that’s what he’s <em> supposed </em>to do. Now, all of those feelings are gone. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital, so he’s not fucking going. Is this what a midlife crisis is? Eddie doesn’t feel like he’s in crisis. He feels like he can do whatever he wants, and that doesn’t scare him at all the way it used to.</p><p>Okay, maybe Richie’s right that something supernaturally weird is going on. Like, Eddie might be open to the suggestion. </p><p>“So there’s a couple of options here,” Mike says. He has a few books spread out on Richie’s kitchen island. He’s shining a pen light in Eddie’s eyes, and a moment ago he listened to Eddie’s nonexistent heartbeat with a stethoscope. “You seem to be okay with sunlight and you don’t have fangs, so I think we can rule out vampire — you’re corporeal, so probably not a ghost.”</p><p>“Oh, probably,” Richie repeats with a snort. </p><p>Mike clicks off the penlight and folds his arms, looking at Eddie thoughtfully. “How are you feeling right now?”</p><p>Eddie shrugs. “I’m pretty good. I feel really energized, you know? I kinda want to make out with Richie again.” </p><p>Mike’s eyebrows shoot up, and he looks over at Richie to mouth <em> again? </em>Richie covers his face with both hands and slumps over the counter.</p><p>“I know this isn’t going to make sense considering, you know,” Eddie says, sweeping an arm to gesture at himself. “But I feel really <em> alive. </em>Like, I can do anything! I’m not scared of what might happen! It’s great!” </p><p>“Hmm,” Mike says. “Okay. Well, one thing we know about the undead is that they’re driven by their id — that’s the part of the brain that demands us to satisfy our desires. Basically, no impulse control.”</p><p>“Hold on, hold up just a sec,” Richie says, his head shooting back up from the counter. His brow is furrowed and he’s frowning deeply. “Did you say <em> undead? </em>Why are you saying that?” </p><p>“Well,” Mike says slowly. “I mean. He has no pupillary response. No pulse. His blood has congealed. He <em> is </em>dead. He’s just also… undead.”</p><p>“What the fuck!” Richie shouts. He’s gone very pale. He looks slightly hysterical. “This is — what the fuck! How the fuck did you <em> die?” </em>This he directs at Eddie.</p><p>Eddie shrugs again. “I don’t know!” Remembering something from the hotel this morning, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a wadded up napkin. “Oh, but I did, uh, puke this up. I think.” He unwraps the napkin to reveal a small, bloody sphere, about the size and shape of a walnut if a walnut was made of organ meat. “I found it next to me when I woke up this morning. It doesn’t look like any organ I know about, but I don’t know what else it could be?”</p><p>Richie’s gone from pale to downright green. “Why the fuck,” he says, his eyes trained on the countertop instead of the thing in Eddie’s hand, “didn’t you <em> mention that earlier?”  </em></p><p>“You have a thing with puking!” Eddie exclaims. “I thought if I told you I flooded my hotel room with vomit and also found an organ on the floor it <em> might </em>upset you!”</p><p>Richie puts his head on the counter again. “I’m gonna be sick.” </p><p>Mike is eyeing the mystery organ with a mixture of interest and revulsion. “Okay,” he says, flicking his gaze back up to Eddie’s face. “You’re not noticing any signs of decay? Tissue damage or anything… falling off? Rotting?”</p><p>Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Gross. No.” </p><p>“This feeling you’re having, the impulsivity. When did that start?”</p><p>Eddie thinks about it. “I guess… when I left my wife yesterday.”</p><p>“Okay!” Mike says, pointing at him. “Good, see, now we have a window. Can you think of <em> anything </em>you might’ve encountered back home that would give you a virus? Maybe you were bitten by an animal — or a person, I guess.”</p><p>It’s hard to remember the last day or two, mostly because up until Eddie decided to tell Myra he wanted a divorce, his days were the same as they’d always been. Nothing remarkable happened to him, so it all kind of blurs together. “I don’t remember, but maybe?” </p><p>“Keep thinking about it,” Mike says. “Anything you remember, no matter how small, it could help us figure this out. We wouldn’t want this to spread if it’s dangerous.”</p><p>“I mean, I feel fine,” Eddie says. “More than fine, I feel great. It doesn’t feel dangerous?”</p><p>Mike hesitates. Then, carefully, he asks, “Do you feel… hungry, Eddie?”</p><p>Eddie thinks about it. There’s a sort of emptiness in his stomach right now, a hollow <em> want </em>that he’s not sure what to do with. No food sounds appealing. He has a weird sort of tangy taste in the back of his throat, like he’s been chewing on pennies. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“Okay.” Mike looks down at his pile of books. “There are a lot of mainstream media misconceptions about the undead — I think ‘zombie’ has a lot of negative connotations, I don’t want to use that word —”</p><p>“Oh my god, Eddie’s a zombie,” Richie says directly to the countertop. </p><p>Mike sighs and hands one of his books to Eddie. “If you want to do some reading on your own, you can borrow some of these. We’ll figure this out, guys! Together, okay?” </p><p>So Eddie spends most of the rest of the day poring over Mike’s books, or at least pretending to because they’re honestly pretty boring and Eddie really wants to, like, run a marathon or jump Richie’s bones or do literally anything else. But Richie seems like he’s on the brink of full-on mental collapse, and as someone who up until a day ago lived their entire life on that brink, Eddie thinks the least he can do is make it look like he’s trying to read Mike’s weird books. </p><p>Mike manages to coax Richie out of his freakout by talking to him about some guy he met on one of his cryptozoology forums — he launches into a story about their in-person meeting at a convention in Maine, and Richie lifts his head up from the counter so he can make fun of Mike for it. Eddie half-listens to Mike’s story about this amateur horror writer named Bill who is apparently extremely hot and has lots of <em> “out there” </em>ideas in his novels. </p><p>As Mike talks, Eddie flips through one of the books on the counter, not absorbing any of the words. He pauses on an illustration that takes up most of a page. It’s a zombie, one of the classic ones like you’d find in the horror movies Richie used to drag Eddie to when they were kids. It’s got a long face, skin sagging and full of open wounds, eyes lopsided and oozing, bone and muscle poking through the holes in its flesh. Its tongue lolls out between broken teeth. Stringy hair sits in clumps on its head, and its hands reach straight ahead, grimy with yellowed nails. It makes Eddie’s stomach churn just to look at it. A festering, walking mass of hunger and want and sickness. Is that what he’s going to turn into? Is this his future?</p><p>He slams the book shut with enough force that Mike and Richie both stop mid-conversation, startled.</p><p>“You okay?” Mike asks.</p><p>Eddie nods quickly. “Yep!” He shoves the book as far away from him as he can.</p><p>--</p><p>Mike heads home in the early evening, taking Eddie’s mystery organ with him to “see what he can figure out,” as if he’s a scientist instead of a librarian. Eddie doesn’t really know what else to do with it, though, so he doesn’t mind. Honestly, he’s feeling antsy. He can tell Richie is, too — sure enough, as soon as Mike shuts the door behind him, Richie turns to look at Eddie and says, “Listen, I think we should talk about this morning.”</p><p>Eddie raises his eyebrows. “When we kissed?” he asks. Richie nods. He looks… definitely not happy. That’s not great. “Shit, were you not — did you not like it? I’m sorry, Rich, you should’ve said something.”</p><p>“No! Obviously I liked it, it’s not that,” Richie says. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just, you heard what Mike said. You’re just acting on impulse now, and I don’t — I can’t. I don’t want you to hook up with me on an impulse because I’m the only gay guy you know, and then regret it.” He won’t meet Eddie’s eyes. </p><p>Eddie stares at him. He almost says something like <em> why would I ever regret being with you? </em>But his brain-to-mouth filter is apparently broken now, so instead he blurts out, “Since when is being impulsive an issue? I thought you’d be glad I’m finally willing to take some fucking risks! You’re impulsive all the time!”</p><p>Richie winces. “Yeah, well. Not about this.” As he says it, Eddie’s finally able to decipher his expression. He looks fucking heartbroken.</p><p>“Why won’t you look at me?” Eddie asks, feeling stung. “You’re the one who’s been acting weird, you’re acting like I’m a different person.”</p><p>“Because you <em> died!” </em> Richie exclaims, and Eddie’s startled to hear the wobble in his voice. “You’re dead, you don’t have a fucking heartbeat and, and something happened to you that killed you. And now you’re acting like — I don’t know! You can’t fucking deny that you’re doing shit you never in a million years would’ve done before, so how am I supposed to believe that — that you actually —” He cuts himself off, putting a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry, I need to just. Go to bed. You can stay the night here if you want to, you know where the guest room is.”</p><p>It’s barely 8 p.m., Richie never goes to bed this early. “Rich, I’m still me,” Eddie says, not sure what else he can say. </p><p>Richie nods, still not looking at him. “I — yeah. I’m sorry. Good night, Eddie.” He disappears down the hall and Eddie hears the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut. </p><p>Eddie puts his face in his hands and lets out a muffled scream. He paces the living room a few times. Finally, he stomps over to the back door and slips outside onto the back patio. Richie has a nice little backyard, the cobblestone patio giving way to a tiny lawn, all surrounded by a midsized fence. Eddie sits down on one of the plastic chairs and starts to think.</p><p>He <em> has </em> been acting different — it’s not like he can help it, Mike said his id has taken over. But so what? He’s been doing all sorts of things he never would’ve had the courage to do before! Up until now, he’s been the kind of person who yells at the traffic from the safety of his own car, who snaps at his coworkers and bottles up all of his true feelings and wants, who turns cowardly and numb the moment it really matters. He doesn’t <em> want </em>to be that person anymore. He can’t be. He doesn’t think he could go back to acting that way if he tried. </p><p>What Eddie <em> wants </em> is to stop being scared, and there’s nothing wrong with that. He wants Richie, and he’d thought, earlier, that Richie could want him back. He’s wondered over the years, but it’s always felt pointless to even consider; for so long Eddie thought that he’d never come out or act on his feelings for Richie anyway, so he’d rather not know if Richie felt the same way. But now, things could be different. They could be better. Eddie just has to prove, somehow, that just because he’s stopped being afraid, it doesn’t mean he’s lost his fucking mind. It’s not like any of his wants are <em> new, </em>and they’re not dangerous. They’re good, right? These are good things. Eddie pushes himself up from the chair. He’s gonna get Richie to understand, and then —</p><p>The sound of the side gate opening startles him, and he says, “Hey, Rich —” before looking up and realizing it’s not Richie at all. It’s Tom. “Can I fucking help you?” </p><p>“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to,” Tom says, stomping up to the patio and standing way too close to Eddie, sneering down at him. “You think I’m fucking stupid? I know what you are.”</p><p>“What the fuck?” Eddie says. <em> He </em>barely knows what he is at this point, how the hell does this guy know anything? </p><p>“You and Tozier,” Tom says, gesturing at the house. “I’ve always had my suspicions about him, and now I have proof. You’re a couple of homos.” </p><p>Eddie barks out a laugh. “Okay. Is that all?”</p><p>“Stay the fuck away from my wife,” Tom says. He leans in. Eddie can smell his breath, the stink of beer lingering there. “She doesn’t need to associate with people like you.”</p><p>“So are you afraid that we’re gay, or that we’re going to steal your wife?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows. “Make up your mind, pal.” </p><p>“Fuck you,” Tom says, jabbing a finger at Eddie’s chest. “You tell that fucking freak to stay away from her too, you got that?”</p><p>Something in Eddie goes very cold. A humming sort of rage buzzes in his ears. The empty pit in his stomach feels like it’s roaring. “Don’t talk about Richie like that,” he says. “I fucking mean it.”</p><p>“Oh yeah, or what?” Tom says, sneering. “What are you gonna do about it, little man? Huh?” His finger pokes harder into Eddie’s chest.</p><p>The anger comes suddenly to a point before it bursts like sparklers under his skin, and Eddie grabs Tom’s hand so fast that the other man doesn’t even have time to react before Eddie is yanking it up to his mouth and biting down hard on his finger. Tom lets out a shout of pain and surprise, and Eddie keeps biting through the skin and muscle and bone until the finger snaps off into his mouth. He tastes the blood, feels it leaking out past his teeth, and his mouth floods with saliva. </p><p><em> Oh my god, </em> Eddie thinks. <em> I’m fucking </em>hungry. </p><p>Tom is still yelling and cursing and flailing his hand around, spattering blood across the cobblestones and himself and Eddie. That could wake the neighbors, and that would be bad. So Eddie does the only reasonable thing he can think of in the moment and grapples Tom by the shoulders before tearing into his throat. He thinks Tom must be a smoker, because it tastes surprisingly like barbecue. Tom gurgles and quiets before slumping to the ground, and Eddie follows him down. At one point as he’s snapping Tom’s femur he thinks, <em> huh, it really </em> does <em> sound like celery breaking. </em>He sort of loses coherent thought for a bit after that, his entire body tingling with pleasure and relief as the hollow want inside of him is sated.</p><p>The back door opens. Footsteps. Richie’s voice saying, “Eds, are you out here? I thought I heard — <em> what the fuck?”  </em></p><p>Eddie looks up. He becomes conscious of the fact that he’s bloody up to his elbows, all over his face and down his chin and neck. Tom’s chest is ripped open. There’s gore and viscera all over the patio. “Richie,” he says, and something bloody falls out of his mouth with a plop.</p><p>Richie looks ashen, clinging to the doorframe, his eyes wide as dinner plates. “Well,” he says after a long moment of the two of them just staring at each other. “I guess we know what kind of undead you are now.” </p><p>“I didn’t mean to,” Eddie says, wiping his face fruitlessly with his sleeve. “He — he was saying shit about you, and I just…” Eddie gestures helplessly to Tom’s body. “I was hungry.” </p><p>Richie stares at the puddle of blood spreading out from where Eddie’s standing. “You ate… my neighbor.” </p><p>“He was a bad person!” Eddie says, waving his arms around. “He was abusing his wife and being homophobic and — and the world’s better off without him!”</p><p>“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Richie says, his eyes still wide. “I’m just… processing. You ate my neighbor and now he’s all over my patio.”</p><p>“He tasted like barbecue,” Eddie offers, trying to defend himself. </p><p>Richie closes his eyes. “These are things you say to me now. Okay.” </p><p>Eddie looks at Richie, still in his pajamas, rumpled and tired and scared. Eddie’s put him through a lot of stupid shit today, and now done something that could get both of them in an insane amount of trouble without thinking about the consequences — because that’s what Eddie does now. How can he even think about justifying himself to Richie after this? </p><p>He sighs. “Rich,” he says, and Richie looks up at him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this would happen, and I never meant to get you involved in something like this. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. And I’ll take care of… all of this.” </p><p>Richie’s brow furrows. “What?”</p><p>“You were right, I’m different now,” Eddie says. “I mean, fucking look at this mess!”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m gonna pass on that,” Richie admits, averting his eyes from the corpse. “But Eds, I was wrong, okay, I shouldn’t have — I was just freaking out. You don’t have to leave, I don’t want you to leave. I want to help, okay? We… we can make this work.” He takes a hesitant step forward, seems to realize he’s approaching the blood puddle with bare feet, and circles around in a wide arc until he’s closer to Eddie while avoiding most of the mess. He puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “You’re my best friend.”</p><p>Eddie smiles hopefully, aware that there’s probably bits of Tom in his teeth. “You sure?”</p><p>“Definitely. And hey, I finally get to fulfill my promise to help you bury a body!” Richie still looks pretty green around the gills, but he’s so fucking earnest. It takes every ounce of Eddie’s self control not to kiss him again. He thinks Richie might not be into that right now, or maybe ever again at this point. </p><p>“Actually,” he says instead, “I don’t think we should bury him.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t think I’m capable of cremating him so I don’t know that we have a lot of other choices here,” Richie says.</p><p>“No, I mean. Think about it, okay, I can’t eat all of him right now. But I might get hungry again, right? And I’d rather not have to find some other evil dickhead to murder anytime soon.”</p><p>“So… what are you suggesting?” Richie says warily. </p><p>“Can you make some room in your freezer?” Eddie says hopefully.</p><p>Richie sighs heavily. “I was worried you might say that.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>next chapter coming... sometime soon! find me on twitter @hermanngottiieb. if you need me to tag or warn for anything else, please let me know there or here in the comments!! see ya soon!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Let's Keep This Between Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eddie and Richie are not good at keeping secrets. Bev makes plans. Mike lends a hand.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i'm back with even more nonsense. can't promise every chapter update will happen this quickly, but for now: I Return. </p><p>chapter-specific content warnings: more references to domestic abuse (spousal and parental), some mild body horror/injuries. as always, fic content warnings broadly apply. enjoy!!! (and note some new character tags!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eddie’s been awake for hours by the time Richie staggers into the kitchen around eight the next morning, squinting blearily at him from the doorway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks up from the counter, where he’s currently using the food processor that likely woke Richie up. “Sorry about the noise. I was wondering if you were ever gonna get out of bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude,” Richie says, scrubbing at his eyes. “We were up so fucking late last night, how long have you been awake?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dunno, since five?” Eddie shrugs. “Wasn’t tired anymore.” He presses the “pulse” button a few more times on the food processor before he’s satisfied with the consistency, and then nods to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie seems to be awake enough now to get a good look at the sloshy reddish mixture in the clear bowl of the processor. “Hey Eds?” he says. “Is that Tom in my food processor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Yeah,” Eddie says. He twists the bowl off so he can pour the puree into a glass. He sticks a straw in there, too, since Richie is the kind of adult who buys plastic bendy straws. “You know how all the classic zombie movies always say zombies eat brains? I figured I’d try it and see if it lives up to the hype. It’s like a smoothie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Richie says faintly. “Probably a good call to destroy his brain, anyway,” he adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie frowns. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that also classic zombie lore? You can’t kill a zombie unless you destroy the brain?” Richie says. “I’d like to avoid my insane neighbor coming back to life and busting his way out of my freezer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Considering Eddie spent many hours last night painstakingly dismembering Tom and sealing him into portioned ziplock bags while Richie power-hosed the patio, he thinks it’s pretty unlikely Tom would’ve been able to bust his way out of anything anyway. Still, it’s a good point. “You really think he could have come back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe! I don’t know how this shit works. I didn’t really process anything Mike said yesterday because my brain was melting down. And speaking of —” He gestures to Eddie’s “smoothie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie picks up the glass and takes a sip through the straw. He doesn’t know what to compare the taste to — it’s not fruity, but it is kind of sweet. Eddie’s aware, on some level, that he should be repulsed by this. He’s never been an adventurous eater — he thought sushi was too risky, raw fish and all that. He’s never even eaten a rare steak. But right now, this satisfies him on some nerve-deep level. It’s not quite the level of tingling pleasure that he felt last night, but it’s close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must be making some kind of blissed out face, because Richie clears his throat and says, “Okay, guess it lives up to the hype after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie glances at him. “You don’t have to watch me eat if it freaks you out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, this is better than last night,” Richie says. “When it’s all blended up like that I can just pretend it’s strawberry-banana in there. I’m never using my food processor again though. That’s yours now.” He walks all the way into the kitchen and pulls out the barstool next to Eddie so he can sit down. “What’ve you been doing since five a.m.?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well New York is three hours ahead, so I called and quit my job,” Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie blinks at him. “That — okay. You just… like not even a two weeks’ notice? Was your boss pissed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shrugs. “Probably. I hung up before he could say much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously?” Richie says, somewhere between impressed and baffled. “Shit, this id stuff is no joke. Wow. Is this, like, going to be a problem when you need to get a new job? Not that I know shit about your corporate nightmare life but isn’t burning bridges kind of a risk — oh my god, I sound like you.” He stares into the middle distance, looking vaguely horrified. “What the fuck, dude, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t be the responsible one in this friendship.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I also emailed my lawyer about the divorce,” Eddie says. “I told her I just want to do all communication through lawyers. I can’t be flying back and forth to New York for god knows how long, not like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I don’t think you’d be able to sneak a human leg onto your carryon if you got the munchies,” Richie says. He clears his throat a little and adds, “So you’re still going through with it? The divorce?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I am,” Eddie says. He looks sidelong at Richie. “I told you I’m gay, Rich, or did you forget me shoving my tongue down your throat yesterday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm, funny how that slipped my mind after I saw you crouching in my backyard with guts hanging out of your mouth,” Richie deadpans. He’s got that tone and expression that usually means he’s kidding, but it still makes Eddie wince a little — a reminder that Richie’s not interested in being with him the way Eddie wants. Richie continues, “Listen, about last night. I think we should probably tell Mike, keep him in the loop, but we need to come up with a gameplan to keep this quiet. We can’t let anyone else find out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Eddie says, nodding. He uses his tongue to maneuver the straw back into his mouth again so he can take another sip. “Do you have any ideas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We could fake his death? Set something up to make it look like a car crash?” Richie offers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t want to waste any of him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sighs. “Well, I mean, maybe everyone will just think he ran off. It was dark, no one saw us. It’s not like we had a motive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just then, there’s a knock on Richie’s front door. They both whip their heads around to stare at it, eyes widening. When they turn back to each other, Richie looks panicked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” he hisses. “What do we do? Could you eat a cop?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then they’d just send another cop and I can’t eat an entire police squad, Richie!” Eddie hisses back, swiping his hand angrily through the air. “Fuck. Look, let’s just answer the door and act like we don’t know shit, and they’ll leave us alone. Just don’t act suspicious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suspicious like the fact that we have an entire body in the freezer?” Richie says, his voice jumping an octave. “That kind of suspicious, Eddie?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s another knock at the door. Richie and Eddie sit there in the kitchen, tense and staring at each other for another long moment, and then finally get up. They both plaster on wide grins and Richie flings the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi!” Richie and Eddie say at the same time, the too-bright intonation of their voices petering off when they see it’s not a cop standing on the doorstep, but Bev. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” she says, looking taken aback by their enthusiastic and simultaneous greeting. “Hi? Sorry to interrupt your breakfast —” she nods at the glass Eddie’s just realized he’s still holding in his hand, and Richie glances at it and goes white as a sheet — “but I was just wondering, um, probably a silly question but have you seen Tom at all today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tom?” Richie replies stupidly. Eddie elbows him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He stepped out last night and didn’t come back,” Bev says. “I thought maybe I just fell asleep before he came back inside and missed him, but his work called and said he hasn’t come into the office yet and his car is still in the driveway…” She folds her arms, not sternly but like she’s creating a barrier for herself. “Neither of you saw him last night, did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, no,” Richie says. He’s practically radiating nervousness. “Nope, nothing at all! We had a pretty early night anyway, right Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In bed by eight,” Eddie agrees, resisting the urge to jab Richie in the kidney again so he’ll stop acting so fucking suspicious. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Bev says. She smiles thinly. “I’m… sure he’ll turn up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie frowns slightly and says, “Hey, are you… are you okay?” He tries to convey through his expression that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>gets </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, that he might have at least an inkling of an understanding of her situation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev takes a breath. “Yes,” she says. She glances back in the direction of her house, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. When she looks back at Eddie, there’s a glint of anxious determination in her eyes. “I just need to think. Get — get some things in order. Yeah. I’m sorry to bother you two so early, I’ll let you get back to breakfast. Looks like a good smoothie you got there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie makes a choking noise and Eddie all but shoves him out of the way so he can start to close the door. “Let us know if — uh, if you hear anything,” he tells Bev. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the door is shut, Richie lets out all his breath, shoving both hands through his hair. “Fuck, that could’ve been so bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, no thanks to you!” Eddie exclaims. “Could you </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span> less subtle?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get nervous!” Richie says, flailing his hands in the air. “You had her husband’s brains in a cup!” He shakes his head wearily. “Okay, well, I’m gonna… I’m gonna shower and then call Mike, see if we can go to his place and fill him in. Maybe he’ll have some advice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Advice on covering up murder?” Eddie asks skeptically. “Mike’s a nerd.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He reads a lot of books,” Richie says, shrugging. “Probably some of them have murder in them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shrugs again and then heads off toward the bathroom. Eddie watches him retreat, and then looks back at the front door. He can’t stop thinking about Bev, about the look in her eyes when he’d asked if she was okay. The way she’d held herself when Tom showed up last night. He finishes the rest of his breakfast and thinks about his childhood, and what he might’ve done, as a teenager, if his mother had suddenly vanished for who knows how long and he finally had a window to get free of her grasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie comes back with his hair damp and his phone in hand, speaking without looking up at Eddie. “Okay, so Mike says we can come over now, apparently he already was going to invite us over so that’s either concerning or good news, I guess — what?” he adds, finally glancing up and seeing the expression on Eddie’s face. “You okay, Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we should tell Bev,” Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie blinks a few times, uncomprehending. “Tell her what.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell her the truth, dumbass! About what happened to Tom. About me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Richie says flatly and without hesitation. “Are you nuts? No way!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think she deserves to know,” Eddie insists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I think if we tell my neighbor, who you’ve met for all of five minutes, that you’re a man-eating undead </span>
  <em>
    <span>monster, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she might not take it well!” Richie exclaims.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie frowns. “Don’t say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not — don’t call me that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie has the decency to look guilty. “I didn’t mean that. You’re not — I don’t think you’re a monster, Eds, but she might. You get that, don’t you? You have to see that it’s dangerous. We can’t just confess murder to someone we barely know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s gonna be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life,” Eddie says. He needs Richie to get it, to understand why this matters. “She’s never going to feel safe from him unless she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>she is. She deserves to feel safe.” He reaches for the doorknob as he speaks, turning it to start to pull the door open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie lunges forward to press a flat hand against the door, trying to push it closed again. “I get that. I do. But I feel like we should be making this decision as a team —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why! I’m the one who ate him, Richie, not you! I’m the one who takes the fall if she has a bad reaction.” Eddie wedges his hand around the door and tries to yank it open again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that, Eds! Did you ever think maybe that’s what I’m worried about?” Richie exclaims. “Fuck, man, I’m just — I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He sounds slightly desperate, pleading a little. Behind his glasses, his eyes are big with worry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighs, still clinging to the door. “Yeah, I know,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s… let’s at least talk to Mike first, okay?” Richie asks. “Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Eddie says. He’s not going to back down from this, because he still thinks he’s right, but — well, maybe it would be good to take a minute and think about how exactly he’s going to tell a virtual stranger that she doesn’t have to worry about her piece of shit husband anymore because Eddie ate him for breakfast. Relenting, Eddie loosens his grip on the door and stops trying to pull it open again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie clearly isn’t expecting Eddie to release pressure so soon, though, because he’s still leaning against the door and accidentally slams it shut — with Eddie’s fingers still in the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god!” Richie yelps, immediately yanking the door back open. “Oh fuck, I’m so fucking sorry, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Eddie says. “It didn’t even hurt. I don’t feel pain anymore, remember? I showed you with the cut on my finger yesterd— oh shit.” He pulls his hand free of the door and holds it up to his face. Mostly it looks fine, and he didn’t feel anything except for some mild pressure, but apparently the door slammed pretty hard, because the middle finger of his left hand is nearly severed entirely, right above the second knuckle. It dangles there, like some weird reverse version of flipping the bird, against the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie makes an incoherent noise and claps both hands over his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks up at him and points at him imperiously with his intact hand. “Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>puke right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am so fucking sorry,” Richie says, aghast, his words muffled from behind his hands. “Oh my god, and we can’t even take you to the hospital because they’ll know you’re dead and probably take you to some secret Area 51 lab to do experiments on you —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich? Literally not helping,” Eddie interrupts. He gingerly flips the finger up so it’s no longer hanging by a metaphorical thread, but it just flops back over again. “Fuck. I don’t know what to do about this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I might have an idea,” Richie says. He’s lowered his hands now, but he still looks a little green around the gills. “I’ll be right back.” He scampers off, and Eddie’s half-sure he’s just running away to vomit. Not that Eddie can blame him. The image from Mike’s book, of the zombie with bloodless, ragged holes in its flesh, flashes in the back of his mind. He looks at his finger and feels a little twist of nausea himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Richie’s back, waving his solution in the air: a roll of masking tape. Eddie narrows his eyes. “Are you serious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes! You need something to stick it back on, don’t you? Cut me some slack, man, my options were very limited.” Richie’s almost pouting, spinning the roll of tape idly on one finger. “I’m really sorry, Eds,” he adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighs, feeling stupidly fond for some fucking reason. “It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault. I’m not mad at you. Go ahead, tape my fuckin’ finger back together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grins. “What else are friends for?” he says, yanking a strip of masking tape from the roll and tearing it with his teeth. Eddie’s almost mad that he finds the motion attractive. Then Richie is cradling his hand and gingerly wrapping the tape around Eddie’s finger. When he’s done, he smooths the end of the tape down and then just sort of cups Eddie’s hand in both of his own. If Eddie’s heart still worked, it’d be pounding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich,” he says softly. Richie looks up to meet his gaze, and the air between them is charged with that same electric current that hummed through Eddie when they kissed yesterday. God, he wants to kiss Richie again. He’s about to go for it, but then Richie drops his hand and steps back quickly, like he’s spooked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should get to Mike’s,” Richie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike lives in a nice little apartment complex not far from Richie's neighborhood. Eddie’s never been there before, so he follows behind Richie as he tromps up the two flights of stairs to get to Mike’s apartment, and then knocks on the door. Mike’s welcome mat is adorned in little cacti and UFOs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Mike answers the door, he’s smiling a little too wide to read as normal. “Hey! Richie and Eddie! How are you!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie and Eddie exchange glances. “Uh,” Richie says, “…fine? I mean, besides the little thing I mentioned on the phone about Eddie </span>
  <em>
    <span>eating </span>
  </em>
  <span>—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I have someone here I want you two to meet!” Mike interrupts. He opens the door more so they can step inside. Eddie looks around Mike’s slightly cluttered living room — stacks of books overflowing from the bookshelves, a sizable collection of DVDs on the TV stand — and sees a man getting up from the couch to greet them. He’s a bit shorter than Eddie, wearing a flannel with a pair of reading glasses hooked into the pocket, and there’s a streak of gray through the front of his hair. He smiles and offers an awkward sort of wave as Richie and Eddie enter the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guys, this is Bill,” Mike says. It takes Eddie a moment to place the name, but then he remembers: the guy from the cryptid forums. Of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great to meet you guys,” Bill says, stepping forward to shake Richie’s hand, and then Eddie’s. “You’re Eddie, right? It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>cool to meet you, Mike’s been telling me about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s eyes narrow slightly, and he looks over at Mike, who is still smiling suspiciously. “Oh really? Telling </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>about me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I talk to you two alone for a second?” Mike says. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think you’d better,” Eddie says. He and Richie follow Mike down the hall to a door that’s slightly ajar. Mike pushes it open all the way and ushers them inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the front room of Mike’s house looks moderately eccentric, it’s clear that in this room, his office, he’s gone full balls-to-the-wall cryptid enthusiast. Framed posters and images of UFOs, Bigfoot, Mothman, jackalopes and the Loch Ness Monster adorn the walls. Bulletin boards overfull with newspaper clippings about two-headed cows and strange lights in the sky are hanging on the walls and propped on the desk, which is stacked with books. Mike has enough filing cabinets for Eddie to half-believe he’s trying to recreate the X-Files in Santa Clarita. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Momentarily distracted, Eddie says, “Jesus Christ, Mike.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike is not quite so distracted. He shuts the door behind them and then spins to face the two of them, clasping his hands almost imploringly in front of himself. “So. Bill knows.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh god, you told him?” Richie groans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t tell him!” Mike says hurriedly. “He figured it out all on his own! He’s very perceptive,” he adds, almost fondly. At Eddie’s glare, he continues, “...and I might have had a bunch of my research about the undead all out on the kitchen table when he got here earlier, and he put the pieces together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he just </span>
  <em>
    <span>believed </span>
  </em>
  <span>it?” Eddie exclaims.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, Eds, think about who we’re talking about here,” Richie says. “These cryptid fuckers are on another level. They believe all kinds of shit. Bill probably thinks Mothman is real and also bangable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill has complicated feelings about Mothman,” Mike says. “And also, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>having the damn Mothman argument with you again, Richie, I swear —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just think you should show Eddie the conspiracy board, he’ll get a kick out of it —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mike,” he says sharply, interrupting whatever the hell this conversation has devolved into. “You can’t just fucking tell people about this — about me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>now </span>
  </em>
  <span>you think telling people is a bad idea?” Richie says, narrowing his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie points a finger at him imperiously. “Don’t even fucking start, alright, it’s different if it’s my choice!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is it less dangerous? At least Bill is like Mike, you know, open-minded about this kind of shit, we have no idea if Bev is going to believe you, first of all, or do anything besides try to bash your brains in!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie feels a sharp, hot anger crawling up from his gut and into his throat. “That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>risk to take, Richie! I’m my own person! I can do whatever I want!” He punctuates his sentence with an aggressive swipe of his hand through the air — and his taped-on finger comes off completely, falling onto Mike’s scuffed hardwood floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them stare at it for a long moment. Eddie’s stomach sinks, all his anger replaced in a flash with a horrible feeling of revulsion at himself. He takes a few deep, slightly ragged breaths, not lifting his eyes from his severed appendage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie, why don’t you go keep Bill company for a minute,” Mike says in a measured, calm voice. “I’ll take care of this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie,” Mike says, more firmly this time. “Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sighs heavily, and Eddie sees in his peripheral as Richie walks to the door and slips out of the room. For a beat, there’s just quiet. Then Mike places a gentle hand on Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie looks up at him. Mike doesn’t look repulsed or frightened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I’ve got some superglue in here,” he says with a slight smile. “Want me to fix you up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie lets out a brief, slightly hysterical laugh. “I guess!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he finds himself sitting on Mike’s desk chair, Mike sitting on the desk itself and holding Eddie’s finger in one hand, a bottle of superglue in the other. “You know, I actually had all these plans to invite you two over to meet Bill today, have a double date,” he admits, smiling sheepishly. “Probably not the best mood for it now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie scoffs. “Yeah, I don’t think that would’ve worked out anyway,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike raises an eyebrow, pausing with the glue bottle touching the end of Eddie’s finger. “No?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie and I aren’t… we’re not, like, dating,” Eddie says, grimacing as he says it. “We’re not anything. I mean, we’re friends, we’re always gonna be best friends, and he agreed to help me hide a body in his freezer so that’s something, but. No, we’re not… like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” Mike says. “I just thought, after yesterday…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I think I freaked Richie out,” Eddie admits. He lets Mike take his hand, lining up the finger with the stumpy end still attached to his hand. “He turned me down, so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie </span>
  </em>
  <span>turned you down?” Mike repeats. “I… did not see that one coming, I gotta admit. Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t say that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie lets out all his breath. After a moment, he says, “Do you remember when Richie danced with me at my wedding?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike smiles slightly. “Yeah. You hardly danced at all the whole reception, he kept saying to me that you looked like you were constipated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, I was deeply closeted and had just married a woman,” Eddie says. He closes his eyes. “We’re out there in the middle of the dance floor doing some jokey version of a middle school slow dance and I — I asked him, ‘do you think I made the right choice?’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can picture it clearly in his mind, even now — the twinkly lighting, </span>
  <em>
    <span>True </span>
  </em>
  <span>by Spandau Ballet playing a little too loudly from their place close to the speakers, the exaggerated way Richie was swaying them from side to side, spinning in a little circle, his big hands on Eddie’s shoulders even though he couldn’t really feel the warmth of them through the starchy confines of his suit jacket. The way Eddie couldn’t decipher the look in Richie’s eyes when he’d asked that question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he didn’t say anything at first and then he just said, ‘what do you want to hear, Eds?’ And I — I just — I told him to tell me whatever would make it easier. So he said yeah, of course you made the right choice, she loves you. And that was it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike doesn’t say anything. When Eddie glances at him, his expression is kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, when I got married,” Eddie continues, “it was because I figured if I ever came out while my mother was alive, it would kill her. And then I married a woman and my mom died two years later anyway. And I just… stayed. I’ve been married for seven fucking years, Mike. I lived my whole fucking life a coward and I didn’t do anything to fix it until I died.” He grits his teeth. He’s aware that his finger is reattached, that there’s no reason for the two of them to still be having this conversation. Normally he has a bit more of a filter around people who aren’t Richie. Not anymore. </span>
</p><p><span>“Eddie,” Mike says gently. “Look, technically, yes, your body is dead. But — </span><em><span>you’re </span></em><span>not, you know? It might take some time, but your life’s not over. Not really.</span> <span>You’ve still got time to make it better. And,” he adds, “I promise I’m not trying to make things harder. Bill’s a good person, and he won’t tell anyone else. You can trust him. And I really, really like him, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t eat him.”</span></p><p>
  <span>That startles Eddie into laughter. “Yeah, alright, deal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what’s your plan when you run out of food?” Bill asks Eddie, like they’re talking about groceries and not body parts. They’re all sitting in Mike’s living room, and Bill’s had absolutely zero qualms about asking Eddie questions. He’s definitely not squeamish, that’s for sure. Maybe it helps that when Richie told Mike who Eddie had killed, Mike’s expression grew stormy and he muttered “good fucking riddance.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Eddie shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh, honestly, I haven’t really thought about it. I mean, I literally just killed him last night. He’ll probably last me… a while?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who says Eds even </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to eat another person?” Richie interjects. “I mean, just because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t mean it’s required for his survival, right? Like, he’s dead. He doesn’t need nutrients anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since when are you a zombie biology expert?” Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, I kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>an expert,” Bill says. “My latest book is about zombies, that’s why I was so excited to get to talk to you —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you use any of my life as inspiration for your book I’ll eat you next,” Eddie says, narrowing his eyes. Beside him, Richie wheezes out a laugh that he tries to disguise as a cough. “Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen when I run out, but I’ll just… figure that out when we get to that point. I spent my whole life worrying about everything and overplanning for every possible outcome, I’m just gonna… go with the flow on this one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill holds out his hands in a disarming gesture. “Hey, it’s your life — or, death. Do whatever you want! But if you do end up having questions, Mikey and I can definitely help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mikey and I,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie repeats later when he and Eddie are in the car on the way home. “I bet you fifty bucks they U-Haul it before the end of the month.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not betting against that, I don’t have a source of income,” Eddie protests. “You really think they will, though?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shrugs, glancing at Eddie before facing the road again. “Probably. They’re both weirdos who found someone who’s the same kind of weird as them. You gotta lock that shit down when you find it. You know, like — like you and me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You and me?” he repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, like. That’s why we’ve been best friends our whole lives,” Richie says. His face is very red, and he’s staring intently at the road. He’s white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We’re the same kind of weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie smiles slightly. He lets himself start to hope again, just a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess we are.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they get back to the house, Eddie stops Richie before he can get out of the car. “I want to tell her, Rich,” he says. “It’s my choice, and I think she deserves to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He expects Richie to fight him some more about it, but instead Richie just glances at Eddie’s superglued finger and all the fight seems to go out of him. His shoulders lose their tension under Eddie’s palm. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re really sure.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So they go to Bev’s house. When they knock on the door, she looks startled to see them. There’s a wariness in her eyes. She’s not wearing makeup, and she has on the same pajamas from this morning. Behind her, through the partially opened door, Eddie can see a large suitcase is open, half-filled with clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Eddie says, smiling a little sadly. “Can we come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit down on the couch. Richie’s knee is jiggling the way it always does when he’s anxious, his hands twisting in his lap. Eddie, strangely, has never felt more calm. He looks at Bev, who is watching him in confusion, and he just — tells her everything. Tells her the truth about himself, about what happened to her husband. She doesn’t interrupt, and shockingly neither does Richie. Eddie just talks until he’s done, and then he sits there and waits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev is quiet for a long, long moment. Then she says, “Okay. So we need to make Tom disappear. I think I know how to do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie says, his head jerking up so he can stare, mouth agape, at Bev. “You — I — did you not hear the part where Eddie </span>
  <em>
    <span>ate </span>
  </em>
  <span>your husband?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude,” Eddie says, “do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>her to freak out on me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tom is — </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> —” Bev cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I thought I was going to have to leave, that this was my only chance. But he doesn’t get to scare me out of my own house. Not anymore. I’m going to book a flight on his card, and I’m going to ditch his car at the airport. Make it look like he ran off. Did you keep his wallet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blinking, Eddie says, “Uh, it’s probably still in the yard. We can bring it over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great.” Bev nods, decisive. There’s a spark in her eyes now, and Eddie feels a sharp sense of pride. He doesn’t know her hardly at all yet, but he feels like he understands this one part of her too well, this thing they both share. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>he could trust his gut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bev,” Richie says, clearly still trying to process. “Are you, like, gonna be cool about this? You won’t tell anyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev levels him with a stare. “Why the hell would I tell anyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, silly me,” Richie says, sounding vaguely strangled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of them scour Richie’s lawn for the wallet and find it relatively easily, cast aside some distance away from the patio and damp from Richie hosing everything down the night before. Eddie pockets it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you it’d be fine,” he says, feeling smug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving him away. “What, are you gonna claim enhanced intuition is one of your zombie powers now, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe it is!” Eddie says, just for the sake of arguing. “Is it so hard to believe that there are some fucking positives to this? Honestly I think there are a shit ton of improvements. I was a neurotic nightmare person before this. I was a fucking pussy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish you’d stop that,” Richie says, frowning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Talking about yourself like that. Like you think you sucked when you were alive. That — that person you’re talking about is my best friend, dude. I liked how you were.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like Richie hasn’t already made his point pretty fucking clear, but it still stings Eddie to hear. “Well I’m sorry I’m not that person anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not what I’m trying to say, Eds,” Richie says, wincing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I get what you’re saying,” Eddie says, getting worked up now. “But I didn’t fucking choose for this to happen and I’m making the most of it here and it’s fucking unfair for you to throw it in my face that you liked me so much better when I wasn’t like this — you know, you’re the only one who seems to have a fucking problem! Everyone else is reacting just fine!” As he speaks, he starts gesturing angrily; despite what’s happened once already today, he just can’t help himself. So it’s not really a surprise when his finger detaches mid-flail and goes sailing across the yard and over the fence, into the yard of the house where the nosy teenager lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie and Eddie say nothing at first, just stare at the fence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any chance we could just leave it and hope they don’t notice?” Richie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie,” Eddie says seriously, “we are getting my fucking finger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They climb over the fence ungracefully and start crawling around on the grass in the dark, looking for anything remotely finger-shaped. There’s no porchlight on back here, since everyone in the house is presumably asleep, so it’s impossible to make out anything specific. Their whispered argument continues anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you would just listen to me,” Richie whispers, patting the ground blindly, “instead of jumping to fucking conclusions —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to listen! I want to find my finger that you severed this morning!” Eddie hisses back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought that wasn’t my fault! You said you weren’t mad!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well now you’re pissing me off so I decided it is your fault, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, you’re being so annoying right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m annoying? Me, Richie? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Me?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie whips his head away from where he’s been glaring at Richie and ends up crawling face-first into someone’s legs. He freezes, sits back on his heels, and very slowly looks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The teenager from the window yesterday is standing there in a pair of flannel pajama pants and an old T-shirt. He’s holding Eddie’s finger, and raising a curious eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This what you guys are looking for?”</span>
</p><p>--</p><p>
  <span>Adrian Mellon is eighteen, wildly unimpressed with Richie and Eddie’s antics, and also, apparently, very handy with a needle and thread. He’s sitting with Eddie and Richie in his backyard after demanding Richie use his phone as a flashlight, neatly and easily stitching Eddie’s finger back on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’know, I saw you guys last night,” Adrian says. “Dismembering a corpse. And at first I thought I was in a fucking Rear Window situation —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve seen Rear Window?” Richie interrupts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No but I’ve seen Disturbia and that’s basically the same thing, I’m just trying to connect with you olds,” Adrian says. “So anyway, I thought, okay, Tozier and his new boyfriend are serial killers, great, and then I heard you two arguing and you called him a zombie, so I think I get what’s actually going on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And this… doesn’t faze you?” Richie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, I’d rather have a zombie next door than a serial killer,” Adrian says, shrugging. He finished the final stitch on Eddie’s finger. “And Mr. Rogan was a real fucking asshole. You won’t catch me crying over that loss.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Eddie says, bending his finger experimentally. It seems to stay on solidly this time. He can’t feel the part of the finger that was severed, but he can still bend it at his second knuckle, so it’s not totally useless. “Well… thanks?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have a plan for when you’re done with Rogan?” Adrian asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to eat you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adrian snorts. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. That’d be a hate crime and you don’t seem like the type. I figured you guys wouldn’t have a plan, considering how you handled the last one. No offense, but you’re like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad at this. Maybe I can help you out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie honestly can’t tell if this kid is serious or just seriously unhinged. Not that Eddie’s in any position to judge. “How exactly are you gonna do that,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can find people for you,” Adrian says simply. “Bad guys. Homophobic pieces of shit like Mr. Rogan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, aren’t you a little young to be an accomplice to murder?” Richie says, frowning. “Ah shit, I’m doing it again, Eds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doing what?” Eddie says distractedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Risk analyzing,” Richie says in a grim voice. Eddie punches him in the arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, you’re gonna need to eat. And I’d rather you not go crazy and try to eat </span>
  <em>
    <span>me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so if you have to eat someone, might as well be someone like, objectively evil, right?” Adrian says. “Anyway, just think about it. I’ve got nothing better to do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m way too tired to think about the moral implications of all this,” Richie says. “Are we done here? Don’t tell your parents about this, I’ll never get back in your mom’s good graces and I’ll die without her extra gingerbread at Christmas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adrian rolls his eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me. Now get out of my yard.”</span>
</p><p>--</p><p>
  <span>After dropping the wallet off with Bev, the two of them stand awkwardly in Richie’s living room for a few moments before Richie, sighing, drops down onto the couch and tips his head back, staring up at the ceiling. Eddie follows suit, leaving a good amount of space between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen,” Richie says after a long, uncomfortable silence. “I thought I already made it clear, but just in case I didn’t, you’re my best friend no matter what. I’m in this for the long haul. Okay? Because I know you’d do the same for me and I fucking love you, dude.” He clears his throat. “I’ve always liked you however you are, you’ve never been a coward. That’s all I was trying to say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Eddie says. “I… thanks, Rich.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem.” Richie turns his head to look at him, smiling a little bit. “It’s like I said, you’re my weirdo for life. You’re just like, extra weird now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Eddie says, reaching over to punch him in the arm and trying to bite back his own smile. He feels a burst of affection for Richie, and instead of shying away from it like he’s used to doing, he wants to embrace it. So he does, scooting closer on the couch to lean against Richie’s shoulder. He feels Richie’s body tense for just a moment before it relaxes completely, and then Richie’s arm comes up around Eddie’s shoulders, hugging him close. It’s a level of casual affection Eddie hasn’t allowed himself to receive from Richie since they were kids and learned what people thought about boys being too touchy-feely with each other. It’s comforting now, more than he even remembered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe in a single day we’ve effectively doubled the amount of people who know about me,” Eddie says. “Adrian’s right, we suck at this.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie bursts out laughing. “Fuck, we really do. We’re terrible murderers. Which, like, normally I’d say is a positive thing.” He presses his face into Eddie’s hair to muffle his giggles, and then once they’ve subsided he stays there — not kissing the top of Eddie’s head, just resting his face against it. And it’s… really nice, honestly. Eddie thinks maybe he could stay like this and be content with it, even if Richie never wants more than this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie has never considered himself a patient person, but he’d like to be. Mike told him that he has time to make things better, and he wants to believe that’s true. He has time to figure this thing out with Richie, he doesn’t have to rush it. After all, he waited his entire life for it — he can wait a little longer, too. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>comments fuel me, so pls let me know what u liked if you're so inclined! next chapter coming sometime soon - hmu on twitter @hermanngottiieb. til then, bye!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The New Normal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eddie tries to adjust to his new life in Santa Clarita — but half-eaten bodies showing up around town might put a stop to that.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>much like eddie, this fic is back from the dead! apologies for the long wait, and a huge thank you to you if you're still sticking around to read more. i'll do my best to get the rest of the fic out in a more timely manner. </p><p>CHAPTER-SPECIFIC WARNINGS: mentions of someone being homophobic/bigoted, an uncomfortable conversation between eddie and richie about homophobia richie experienced growing up. the usual body horror and eddie eating human flesh.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Three days after Eddie shows up at Richie’s house unannounced, he changes his location on Facebook, and almost immediately gets a call from Stan Uris. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan is the only other person from their tiny backwater town that Eddie and Richie kept in touch with after high school. Stan, unlike Eddie and Richie, has had his shit together for a very long time — he’s happily married and runs his own accounting firm in Atlanta. This is why, when Stan calls, Eddie doesn’t think he’s imagining the faint note of judgement in his voice when he asks, “You moved to California?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Eddie says defensively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you and Myra…” Stan trails off meaningfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Divorced,” Eddie says. “I mean. I asked for one. We split up.” He feels vaguely flustered, trying to explain the whole thing in a way that </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound as chaotic as it is. It’s hard to lie to Stan, who’s known him almost as long as Richie has. “I’m just trying to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. My lawyer keeps emailing me about dividing the assets and I’m just like, she can have it all, you know? It’s driving Richie crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is true — when he found out Eddie had been ignoring his lawyer, Richie said, “You’re telling me you don’t want </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>of your shit? What about your insane shoe collection? You spent like a million dollars on all of those.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s not sure whether he’s just not attached to any of his belongings or if the thought of wading through the legal bullshit is simply too boring for his impulse-driven brain to deal with anymore. Either way, he’s still ignoring the emails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s… an interesting choice, Eddie,” Stan says slowly. “So you’ve been hanging out with Richie a lot since you moved?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m actually, uh. Living with him,” Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You left your wife and now you’re living with Richie,” Stan repeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie hasn’t come out to Stan, and as far as he’s aware Richie never did either, at least not in so many words. Stan’s always been perceptive, though. Eddie knows what he’s thinking right now. “It’s not what it looks like,” he says grudgingly. “Believe me, it’d be fucking easier if it was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gonna elaborate at all, or….?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope!” Eddie says.  “Listen, I know this all sounds really insane and like, not like me, but I — I just had to do it, okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, I expected this would happen eventually,” Stan says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, I’d finally snap?” Eddie asks, only half-kidding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan snorts. “Something like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not just running away,” Eddie insists. “I’m making a life here. I’m gonna get a job!” he adds. It wasn’t something he was actively thinking about; he quit his old job and hadn’t thought much past that. Once the idea enters his mind, though, it’s hard to shake. He’s already bored sitting around Richie’s house. He’s unemployed for the first time in his adult life and currently has next to no impulse control. To say he’s stir crazy would be an understatement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Eddie knows exactly who can help him with this. Ben Hanscom is a friend of Eddie’s from almost a decade ago, when his architecture firm and Eddie’s insurance firm shared a building. Ben is one of the few friends Eddie’s made in his adult life who isn’t one of Myra’s friends. He also relocated to Los Angeles to head a nonprofit architecture group three years ago. When he moved, Ben told Eddie to keep in touch and call him if he was ever on the West coast. He probably didn’t mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>call me if you suddenly need a job in California, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but —</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, we actually might have a spot for you,” Ben says. “Yeah, our finances guy just moved, are you good with budgets?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie takes the job. He doesn’t even have to interview for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nepotism,” Richie says when Eddie tells him, faux-disappointed, shaking his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, asshole. That’s not even what that means,” Eddie snaps. “You should be grateful I can help pay your mortgage now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s eyes widen. “What? No, dude, I’m not letting you pay my bills. You seriously don’t have to do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie fixes him with a pointed look. “I’m making you store a dead guy in your freezer,” he says. “I think I at least owe you for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment as Richie processes this. “Alright, you can pay rent for the dead guy,” he allows. “You know, I gotta say, I kinda figured if you started a new career it’d be….”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Eddie says, raising an eyebrow, a slight challenge in his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...less fucking boring, dude, I mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>finances? </span>
  </em>
  <span>It doesn’t really fit your whole new,” here Richie gestures vaguely to Eddie’s entire body, “unhinged persona.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First of all: fuck you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Second </span>
  </em>
  <span>of all, it’s not like I’m suddenly fucking passionate about budgeting, I just needed a job. And this one feels like a good way to, you know. Balance the karmic scales a little bit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ohh, okay, so it’s a guilt thing. Now you’re speaking my language,” Richie says, in that voice that means his joke isn’t a joke at all. As if he needs to tell Eddie of all people that he has a guilt complex. “Well, for the record, man, you killed an abusive piece of shit. I think that’s probably already good karma.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie agrees with him on that front. That’s not the guilt he’s trying to absolve. It’s the guilt he feels about making Richie go through all of this with him, ride-or-die best friend or not. It’s still a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turns out, Eddie likes working with Ben. Ben seems to be under the impression that Eddie is having a midlife crisis, after hearing a zombie-free explanation of how he left his wife, fled to California, quit his job, and has an almost frighteningly cavalier attitude toward the whole thing. Maybe Richie wasn’t too far off with the “unhinged” comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Ben is nice, and Ben doesn’t know that Eddie is a man-eating undead freakshow, which is refreshing. He pokes his head into Eddie’s little office in the middle of his first week on the job and asks if he wants to grab lunch at some wrap and sandwich place down the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Eddie says, already unused to people offering him real food anymore. “Uh, I’m okay! Got my — protein shake.” He lifts his travel cup, which is currently full of blended up Tom guts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A crease appears in Ben’s brow. “Eddie,” he says carefully, “is that the only thing you’ve had to eat today? I feel like — and I’m not trying to pry! — but I’ve just noticed that’s all I see you eat every day, and I just want to make sure… I’ve had a complicated relationship with food in the past, so if you need to talk to someone, if you’re going through anything…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh god. Eddie’s forgotten just how earnest Ben is. “No, no, I’m fine! Honestly. I had a big breakfast, is all. Thanks though, seriously. I’m okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay…” Ben doesn’t look convinced, but he taps his knuckles against the doorframe and ducks out again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the topic of food, though, Eddie is starting to worry vaguely about his dwindling supply. It’s only been about a week since Adrian offered to find him more people to eat — an offer Eddie is still trying to ignore the ethical implications of — and he hasn’t found anyone yet. And that’s fine, Eddie still has plenty of Tom in the fridge, but he knows it won’t last forever. He tries, one day, to go without eating at all, just to see if he could stretch things out that way, but by midafternoon he’s hangry enough that he can’t focus at all and has to go home from work early and tear a chunk out of Tom’s frozen thigh like an animal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t tell Richie about it, because he doesn’t want to worry him, but that evening Bev stops by and he can’t help but bitch a little bit about his situation as he sits across from her on the couch and watches her eating some of Richie’s leftover pizza.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I miss being able to eat real food,” he complains. “I can’t believe the last meal I ever ate was some shitty fusion restaurant food and it wasn’t even good. What a joke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh god, did you have your last meal at Japopo’s?” Bev asks. She grimaces sympathetically. “That’s rough, buddy. I got food poisoning from there once.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev has come over a few times in the past week, settling into a friendship with the two of them, to both Richie and Eddie’s surprise. She can go toe-to-toe with Richie almost as well as Eddie can, and she seems more comfortable with Eddie than he ever would have anticipated. He keeps expecting her to freak out once the reality of the situation sinks in, but he’s trying to enjoy the companionship while it lasts. He’s lucky, he thinks, that both of Richie’s neighbors are weirdos.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So the situation is far from ideal, but still — things could be worse. He’s settled into this new life in California surprisingly quickly, and he’s making friends — real adult friends! — for the first time in years. He likes his job and he likes Richie’s house. Bill and Mike have been sending him more zombie research, but he’s been mostly avoiding it and doing a decent job of not fixating on all of that. For once, Eddie really feels like he’s got things under control.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then one Saturday morning Adrian knocks on Richie’s door. Eddie answers it, surprised that the kid is coming over in person instead of just texting one of them, and is immediately greeted by Adrian shoving his cell phone in Eddie’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanna explain this?” Adrian asks without preamble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie blinks a few times, taking the phone from Adrian and squinting at the screen. The browser is open, some local news site pulled up. The article headline states that a jogger was found dead on the local hiking trail a couple miles outside of town, with a leg and arm torn off, the head missing. Some large animal is suspected, though it can’t be determined yet what the animal is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought we had an agreement, I was going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>help </span>
  </em>
  <span>you find bad people to eat,” Adrian says accusingly. “And this is even sloppier than the job you did on Rogan! You can’t just leave a half-eaten corpse meal on the side of the road, Eddie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie lowers the phone and stares at him, baffled. “Wait, I’m sorry, you think </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>did this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adrian gestures at the phone. “Have you met any other zombies around here? Because you’re the only one </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>know and this is clearly a zombie attack. You got another explanation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An animal?” Eddie says, but he knows it’s a weak excuse. What kind of animal that big would have been near such a heavily trafficked area? “Look, I didn’t do it, alright? I think I’d remember doing something like this!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie emerges from the hallway, bleary-eyed and yawning. “What’s goin’ on?” he says, leaning in over Eddie’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your boyfriend’s been chowing down on joggers,” Adrian says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s temper is starting to boil over. “Literally none of that sentence was true,” he snaps, stinging at the ‘boyfriend’ comment almost as much as the rest of it. Beside him, Richie is reading over the article headline, a concerned frown forming on his face. Eddie groans. “Come on, Rich, not you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie must be able to sense that Eddie’s about to lose it, because he passes the phone back to Adrian and says, “If he says he didn’t do it, he didn’t do it, man. You should head home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever,” Adrian says, looking unconvinced. He sticks his phone back in his pocket and steps away from the door. As soon as he’s out of the doorframe, Eddie slams the door shut. He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples. When he opens them again, Richie is watching him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I did it, don’t you,” Eddie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not saying you did it on purpose,” Richie says slowly. “It’s just… I mean, you can’t remember how you turned, right? You still haven’t remembered what happened back in New York. So who’s to say you wouldn’t black out and forget doing… other shit, you know? You sleep like four hours a night, dude, I have no idea what you might be getting up to while I’m asleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie opens his mouth to protest, but he can’t think of anything to say, because Richie’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He can’t remember much of what happened to him back home, but that’s because every day was such a depressing slog of </span>
  <em>
    <span>sameness </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he dissociated his way through weeks at a time. His life’s not like that anymore! He’s in control of things!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least, he thought he was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hasn’t eaten anyone since Tom, and he has no reason to go prowling around the hiking trail when there’s still plenty of food in the freezer. It’s just a really weird, unfortunate coincidence. Even so, he feels like he’s watching his precarious new normal collapse like the sham it probably always was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the second body shows up two days later, it’s Mike and Bill who deliver the news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something you wanna tell us, bud?” Mike asks over the phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie scowls at the news article open on his laptop. “This doesn’t make any fucking sense. How the fuck would I be doing this without knowing it — </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>would I be doing it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now I can’t say for certain,” Bill says — Mike must have the phone on speaker. “But a lot of the lore on zombies talks about going into a sort of fugue state. It’s possible if your emotional state was particularly volatile, the zombie brain would take over and you might not remember it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. Fucking great!” Eddie flings his free hand in the air, then drops it so he can rake his fingers through his hair anxiously. “How do I </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well…” Bill says, and Eddie can already tell from his tone he’s not gonna like this. “I mean, if you want to make sure you’re not blacking out and sneaking off somewhere, you could, ah, restrain yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are suggesting he chain himself up?” Mike asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie hangs up on them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie finds him outside a half hour later, staring dourly at the horizon as the sun sinks low in the sky. “Hey, man,” Richie says, dropping into the lawn chair next to Eddie’s and watching him carefully. “You okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you chain me up?” Eddie asks abruptly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie makes a strangled noise of surprise. “I — what? Is this a sex thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, it is not a sex thing! It is extremely the opposite of a sex thing!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um,” Richie starts, and then pauses. “You lost me here, Eds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill thinks I should chain myself up at night so I can’t eat hikers anymore,” Eddie says. He glances sidelong at Richie, waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you said you weren’t the one doing that,” Richie says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not! Or at least… I don’t think I am.” Eddie shakes his head. “I thought I had everything under control. I thought I had </span>
  <em>
    <span>myself </span>
  </em>
  <span>under control. I’m not — I’m not a monster, Richie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re not,” Richie says gently. It’s still surprising, sometimes, when Richie is gentle with him. It’s not patronizing or smothering, but it’s kind. Eddie doesn’t particularly feel like he’s earned it right now. “Look, if you say you didn’t do it, I believe you. There has to be another way to figure out what’s going on over there. I’m not gonna chain you up like a dog, that’s fucked up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie wants to ask — as he often does, no matter how much he tries to push it aside and tell himself things are normal — if Richie is afraid of him. He can’t bring himself to do it. He doesn’t really want to know. Instead, he says, “Let’s call Mike and Bill back. Maybe they’ll have a less shitty idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is one other thing we could try,” Mike says on FaceTime. “Whatever’s killing people keeps going back to the same area. We could set up a camera and get the live feed streamed to one of our computers, then we’d be able to see what’s going on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, like a surveillance camera? Is that… legal?” Richie asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill and Mike look at each other and shrug. “Eh,” Bill says, making a so-so motion with his hand. “Don’t worry about it. We can drive over there tonight and set it up. If… </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever it is </span>
  </em>
  <span>comes back tonight, we’ll see it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie doesn’t sleep many hours in general these days, but that night he doesn’t sleep at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing happens, of course, and Eddie knows he should be relieved, but he’s not. There’s still no proof that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>him killing people the last two times. He doesn’t want a third person to die, but it’d be great if something could get caught on Mike and Bill’s camera and let him off the hook. Then again, the idea that there’s somehow </span>
  <em>
    <span>another </span>
  </em>
  <span>zombie in Santa Clarita is almost equally terrifying — because there’s really only one way that could have happened, and going into fugue states to turn people undead isn’t much better than going into fugue states to eat them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At work, he asks Ben with as much nonchalance as he can manage, “Do you ever go jogging by the hiking trail in Santa Clarita, up by my place?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh jeez, well even if I did before I sure wouldn’t be going there now,” Ben says, shaking his head. “Those animal attacks are crazy! But no, that’s a little far for me to go for a jog. I have a few routes I like here, though. Hey, would you want to come with me sometime? It’d be fun to have a jogging buddy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Eddie yelps. Ben blinks at him, looking mildly alarmed, so Eddie corrects, “I mean, um, no thanks. Not really my thing.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Trust me, buddy, you don’t want me with you on a jogging trail, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks morosely.</span>
  <em>
    <span> You might end up with your throat ripped out. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So much for being able to have normal friends. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tries not to, but he does fall asleep the following night. It’s early the next morning — barely 7 a.m. — when Mike calls Eddie. With a horrible sense of dread, Eddie answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We got it,” Mike says, sounding breathless with something like excitement. “Eddie. We got it on camera.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie feels like his stomach is full of ice water. “And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike says, “It’s not you,” and Eddie flops backwards onto his bed and covers his face with his free hand, laughing slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck. Thank fuck,” he says. He opens his eyes again. “Wait, so what is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not what,” Mike says. “Who.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that mean?” Eddie asks warily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m emailing you a screenshot from the video,” Mike says. “Nothing gory, just a shot of the guy’s face. He didn’t kill anyone last night, he was just chasing a rabbit around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re sure he’s the guy?” Eddie asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, very fucking sure. He was eating a human hand out of a snack bag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Eddie says. He grabs his laptop from his nightstand and opens his email to check out the picture Mike sent him. It’s pretty grainy, but it’s a decent torso-up image of a stocky man wearing a shirt with the sleeves ripped off. “Does he have a mullet?” Eddie asks in slight disgust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure does. A pinnacle of style, this guy,” Mike says. “Anyway, do you recognize him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, no? I know like five people in Santa Clarita and you know all of them. Why would I know this random dude?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Mike says slowly. “I mean. I think we can safely assume that this guy is undead. Like you. And if we’re also assuming you became undead sometime in New York… how else would this guy have become undead if you didn’t bite him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Eddie says immediately. “We don’t even know how </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>became undead, we don’t even know if it passes through biting, and I’m — I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>just going around biting random dudes! Look, I’ll show this photo to my people and see if we can figure out who this guy is, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your ‘people?’ You mean the teenager who sewed your finger back on and is now searching the dark web for your next meal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodbye, Mike!” Eddie shouts into the phone, and then hangs up. He stares at the image of the man on the screen. Even with the shitty quality of the photo, Eddie recognizes the manic glint in the man’s eye — the look of someone with no impulse control. “Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you,” he mutters. “And how the fuck do I find you before you eat half the city?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Four hours later when Richie finally gets his ass out of bed, Eddie has resorted to stress-eating. This means Richie walks into the kitchen to find Eddie shoveling half-thawed fingers into his mouth like they’re baby carrots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okey-dokey,” Richie says after a long pause, in the tone of voice of someone trying very hard to sound like they’re not having a mild mental breakdown. “That’s — yep. Rough morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have no idea,” Eddie says, as grimly as he can through a mouthful of finger. He shows Richie the photo of the man from the hiking trail. In the past four hours, Eddie’s gotten increasingly pissed off at this strange man’s whole vibe. “Like, it’s not the fuckin’ 80s anymore, dude, get a new haircut,” he says, gesturing emphatically at the picture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His crimes against fashion </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>a high priority,” Richie says, nodding mock-sagely. “But we might want to focus on the whole murder thing first.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can focus on both!” Eddie says. “He has bad hair </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad murder etiquette. At least we cleaned up after ourselves, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First of all, yikes. Second of all, we cleaned up after </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I played no part in the eating of my neighbor,” Richie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I sent the picture to Adrian,” Eddie says, ignoring him. “So hopefully he can find out who this guy is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your plan if you find him?” Richie asks. “Are we gonna —” He mimes stabbing himself in the brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! God, no, I’m just gonna talk to him,” Eddie says. “He’s probably scared and confused and doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. I have no idea how I would’ve acted if I didn’t have you. Maybe if he knows he’s not alone, he’ll chill out and start eating people more discreetly. And like, only bad people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looks back at the photo of the man, eyebrows raised. “You think this is a guy who can be reasoned with?” he asks skeptically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Eddie admits. “But I have to fucking try.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t expect to hear back from Adrian anytime soon — he doesn’t expect Adrian to have an answer at all, honestly — so he’s shocked when only three hours after he sent the picture, Adrian replies </span>
  <em>
    <span>good news i have located ur zombie friend.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You know him???? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie replies quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>no but my bf recognized him. come over he can tell u abt it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looks up from his phone and says to Richie, “We have to go interrogate a teenager about our rogue zombie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a normal sentence,” Richie says. “Also, ‘our?’ Are we adopting mullet man now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he’s nice!” Eddie says. “We don’t know anything about him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Except that he’s eating people,” Richie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie gestures emphatically at himself. “Um, hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, Eds,” Richie says affectionately. “You’re not nice either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asshole,” Eddie mutters, though he has to force himself not to smile. “Look, I just — I think it might be nice to have someone else who, you know, gets what it’s like. So I’m trying to be optimistic here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie hums, unconvinced. “I dunno, man. I just get a </span>
  <em>
    <span>vibe.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>vibe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>what the fuck are you talking about, shut up,” Eddie grumbles. “Just because he has a shitty haircut doesn’t mean he’s a total dick.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So he’s a total dick,” Adrian’s boyfriend, Don, tells them. They’re sitting in Adrian’s bedroom, Richie and Eddie perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed while Don and Adrian sit on the desk chair and the desk itself, respectively. “He comes into the coffee shop I work at a lot, and usually he’s really rude, but this time he was just — </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouting </span>
  </em>
  <span>slurs at everyone. Like literally every bigoted thing you can think of, he probably said it. It was really weird, though, because he didn’t seem, like, mad? Normally he’s kinda surly, you know, but this time… I don’t even know. He was smiling the whole time like he’d found his fucking purpose in life. His whole vibe was kinda…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unhinged?” Richie offers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don nods. “Unhinged, yeah. Then he bought a large coffee, slammed it, and immediately threw up everywhere. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Super</span>
  </em>
  <span> weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still want to be his new best friend?” Richie mutters to Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut. The fuck. Up,” Eddie hisses back. To Don, he says, “Did he happen to say his name or anything…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s a rewards member, so we have his name and phone number in our system, it prints out on the receipt,” Don says. He pulls a receipt from his pocket and starts to pass it toward Eddie, then hesitates. “I could get fired for this. This is super not allowed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Babe,” Adrian says, putting a hand on Don’s shoulder. “He eats people, remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You told him that?” Eddie exclaims.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the mullet guy,” Adrian says dismissively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>eating people?” Don asks, turning to Eddie again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweet Jesus,” Richie says, and then leans forward to swipe the receipt out of Don’s hand. “Well kids, this has been a real blast, but Eds and I have to go catch a murderer. Hasta la vista. Stay in school, et cetera.” He grabs Eddie by the arm and steers him out of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Real smooth, Richie,” Eddie grumbles as they descend the stairs. “You’re my hero, truly. Thanks so much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, like you’re such a master of deflection,” Richie says. Once they’re outside on the sidewalk again, he hands Eddie the receipt. “So? Who is our newest member of the undead brigade?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie scans the receipt. “Henry Bowers,” he reads aloud. “I guess I’ll just… text him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you even gonna say?” Richie asks, but Eddie’s already pulling out his phone and plugging in the number at the bottom of the receipt. “Eds, hang on, shouldn’t we like draft this out instead of just winging it —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Already sent,” Eddie says. He looks up from the phone to see Richie’s expression, and winces apologetically. “Sorry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sighs long-sufferingly, which Eddie thinks is a little rude, frankly, and since when was Richie the long-suffering one in this relationship? Friendship. Whatever. Richie says, “I don’t know what I expected. Can we go inside, at least? And then you can show me what the fuck you said to him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They head back to Richie’s house, and Eddie shows him the text. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We know what you are. We can help you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie whistles lowly. “Jeez, ominous much?” Then his eyes widen. “Oh shit, he’s typing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie huddles in close, and the two of them watch the three dots appear and disappear from the text window. Finally, Henry Bowers replies: </span>
  <em>
    <span>who the fuk is this </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie tugs the phone out of Richie’s hand and types quickly: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Someone like you. We just want to talk.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no typing bubble right away, this time. The silence stretches so long that Eddie starts to lose hope — and patience. But then, just as he’s about to give up, a new message appears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an address. The next message says </span>
  <em>
    <span>tomorrow. 6pm. come alone. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a tense air of anxiety between Eddie and Richie the next day, and Eddie is quickly learning that he’s nearly incapable of just sitting with anxiety anymore. When they head out to drive to the address Henry Bowers sent, Adrian waves them off from his porch with some snarky comment about Richie not letting his boyfriend snack on anyone on the way over. It’s enough to tip Eddie over the edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost as soon as Richie’s started the car and pulled out of the driveway onto the street, Eddie says, “You know you never correct Adrian when he calls me your boyfriend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s expression doesn’t change, his eyes fixed on the road. “Okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just think it’s funny,” Eddie says. Pressing on the wound, his own hurt pride and the lingering suspicion that Richie is afraid of him. “Do you really not care if he thinks that? Does he even know you’re gay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie huffs out a short breath. “Eddie,” he says quietly. “Come on. Everyone knows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This throws Eddie somewhat. “You — what do you mean? Did I miss something?” As far as he’s aware, Richie still isn’t out. Eddie’s pretty fucking sure Richie would’ve told him that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We went to the same shitty high school, Eds, you remember how it was. I didn’t have to fucking say anything, everyone just — knew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They said that shit about me, too,” Eddie says, uncertain. He regrets bringing this up. He feels a little mean for having done it — sharp-edged in all the ways he doesn’t want to be. He was only trying to hurt his own feelings, not Richie’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well.” Richie gestures expansively with one hand. “Two for two.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snorts. “Okay, fair enough.” Then he sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why the fuck I even brought that up.” Because he’s stressed and frustrated and in love and also a man-eating freak, but he doesn’t think Richie needs to hear all of that right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was kind of expecting you to bring it up sooner or later,” Richie says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie frowns. After a moment, not sure if he really wants the answer, he asks, “Rich, do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>Adrian to think I’m your boyfriend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie makes a weird sound that might be a laugh. “I just want to get through this little meeting without becoming the homophobic mullet man’s next meal, okay? Can we worry about that first?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Eddie promises. “It’s all going to be fine. I’ve got this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For sure, for sure,” Richie says, eyes widening unconvincingly. “No doubt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They arrive at the address Henry sent, an apartment complex, and Eddie clambers out of the car, eager to get this over with. Richie follows a moment later, after grabbing something from the backseat that turns out to be some kind of leather messenger bag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is that,” Eddie asks, watching Richie sling the bag over one shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie glances down at it. “It’s my bag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since when do you have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>satchel?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie demands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Since now!” Richie says, clutching at it defensively. “What’s wrong with the bag? It’s nice! It’s leather!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie blinks at him a few times and then sighs. “Okay, I don’t have time for this. Bring your weird bag, let’s go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They head up the stairs to the second floor of the apartments, walking along the balcony until they reach B290. Eddie and Richie share a glance, and then Eddie lifts a hand to knock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a minute, but then the door swings open, revealing Henry Bowers. “What,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Eddie can start to answer, Richie cuts in with an over-the-top smile and says, “My name’s Peter Venkman and this here’s my buddy, Egon Spengler. We texted you yesterday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, right,” Henry says. He swings the door open wider. “Get in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they follow Henry into the apartment, Eddie hisses to Richie, “What the fuck was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t just give him our real names, I improvised,” Richie hisses back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ghostbusters?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Really? And why the fuck am I </span>
  <em>
    <span>Egon?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie grins at him, looking amused despite being clearly nervous. “Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry, next time you can be Zuul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They come to a stop in the middle of a dingy-looking living room that has definitely seen better days. There’s a faint stink to it, the lingering sourness of bile and the stronger smell of old blood. The room is in disarray, as if Henry’s been throwing things around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Henry says, turning back around to look at them both. “You guys are like me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Side-eyeing Richie, Eddie says, “...yes. When did you, uh, change?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry shrugs. “I don’t fuckin’ know. A couple weeks ago?” This strikes Eddie as odd, considering he’s only been undead himself for a couple weeks. Did he somehow turn Henry that first night in town? Henry continues, “Hey, so what do you even think I need help with? I don’t need </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>anymore. We can do whatever the fuck we want!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Eddie says placatingly. “But, I mean… the bodies by the hiking trail. It’s too obvious. You’re going to get caught. We could help you learn to be more discreet —”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, fuck that,” Henry says immediately. “Anyone tries to stop me, I’ll eat them too! D’you know we can’t fuckin’ die?” He pulls something from his pocket, and Eddie only has time to process the flash of metal as a switchblade before Henry is stabbing himself in the chest. Eddie and Richie both yelp in alarm, but Henry just laughs and pulls the knife out, stabbing himself a few more times for emphasis. “Doesn’t even hurt! Who gives a shit! You know what I was doing before this? I was a fuckin’ night shift security guard. My life was bullshit. Not anymore. No consequences. I don’t answer to nobody but me.” He grins, a crazed glint in his eyes and the too-wide stretch of his smile. Eddie resists the urge to cringe — fuck, is that what </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>looks like these days? “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>great. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You gotta learn to live a little, Egon! We’ve been given a fuckin’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>gift. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You know you can just go up to people and say whatever you want? No more of this PC bullshit, right? Shit, maybe I should be the one helping </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>man.” </span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie can feel his patience fraying. “Okay, listen,” he interjects. “I get that you never outgrew some sad little middle school desire to be the biggest, meanest kid on the playground, but this isn’t a fucking game, alright? You can’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill </span>
  </em>
  <span>people left and right! Your actions still have consequences, can you get that through your thick undead skull? I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops, because something on Henry’s face has changed, his body suddenly tensing, alert. He sniffs the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sniffs, too, and the tangy scent of fresh blood hits him full force. He turns around to see Richie, who’s lingering near the entrance to the living room and fidgeting nervously. Richie’s been picking at a hangnail, and it seems he’s ripped it open enough to bleed. Richie looks up from his own hands to see them both staring at him, and his eyes go wide. “What,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry says, “I thought you said you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>like me. You’re alive, aren’t you?” He points at Richie, who takes a step back. “What the fuck’s this, you bring a snack along for the ride?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back the fuck off,” Eddie says. In a few quick strides he’s standing in front of Richie like a barrier, facing Henry as he stalks closer. “I’m fucking serious. You don’t lay a hand on him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Egon, man, you’re really bumming me out,” Henry says. He’s still grinning, all his teeth showing, his eyes wild. “You know I gotta eat this guy, right? Don’t you want to? Aren’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Eddie?” Richie says frantically from behind him. “We should go, man, we should just fucking go—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t touch him,” Eddie says again, standing his ground. “You gotta come through me first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry stares at him for a long, considering moment — maybe waiting for Eddie to back down. He is taller and broader than Eddie, and he’s still holding the knife. Eventually, he shrugs. “Alright.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he charges at them. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry for the cliffhanger, but i promise not to make you wait 2 months to see what happens next!! i'm on twitter @hermanngottiieb if you wanna say hi. and in the meantime, i'm also working on a multimedia au over there, so check out @RichieIsntDead if you're into that kinda thing. see you next time!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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